


All Through the Night

by elisende



Series: Whisper My Name [4]
Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Angst, M/M, Massage, Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28205787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisende/pseuds/elisende
Summary: The Underdark lies ahead and discontent ripples through the camp. Before they descend into the darkness Halsin has prepared something special, sweet, and veryHalsinfor Langoth.  But their deepening connection threatens to dredge up painful memories of a past Langoth wishes to forget.
Relationships: Halsin (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Whisper My Name [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2079360
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

“I still don’t understand why _the druid_ has to camp with us now.” Astarion folded his arms in front of him. Langoth mirrored him unconsciously, noticed himself doing so, and put his hands on his hips instead, even more annoyed.

“Useful, having a master druid on one’s side,” Gale said, steepling his long fingers. Langoth thanked him silently. “Especially one that can change into a great snarling bear at a moment’s notice.”

Astarion fairly snarled himself. “Why not invite a few wild boar to share in our adventures, then? Or perhaps that cambion who was so eager to strike a deal with us? We already have a walking corpse, an imbecilic bard, and now a dried up old druid.”

“Ooh, would we call him dried up?” Gale said, flashing an impish smile. The wizard crouched by the fire, dipping his hands into the flames which swirled around his wrists in a pretty show of magic. “Master Halsin seems altogether... _robust_ , to me.” Astarion shot him a look of pure venom, which Gale blithely ignored.

Langoth started to reply before Shadowheart cut in. “I agree with Astarion. Why should we open our company to more followers?”

Finally, Langoth spoke. “Because we need all the help we can get. Or would you prefer to navigate the Underdark alone? Halsin has fought Ketheric and knows more about the Shadow Curse than anyone.”

“I wonder why that is?” Astarion muttered. His petulant glance made Langoth’s blood heat up as it flushed his cheeks. 

They had tarried as long as they could. The truth was that they all feared the dark path that descended beneath the depths of the Shattered Sanctum. And the longer they delayed, the more his companions filled with dread. Langoth could sense it through their shared connection, in their strained conversations, the silent breakfasts. This waiting had to end.

“We go tomorrow,” he said softly, looking into the orange flames as though they could divine the future. He sensed Gale’s apprehension, Shadowheart’s determination, and Astarion’s abject fear--which mirrored his own. The thought of dying down in the darkness, all that earth above him, was terrifying.

“Well, best to get an early night, then,” Gale said, rising and brushing off his robes. He departed for his bedroll with a wink and Shadowheart followed not long after, slipping discreetly into Wyll’s tent again. Langoth raised an eyebrow but said nothing. It was surprising, the bedfellows made by their peculiar circumstances.

“I suppose we all know how _you’ll_ be spending the night,” Astarion said, showing his fangs.

“I could say the same for you.” He regarded Astarion from across the leaping flames. He didn’t need to probe their strange bond to perceive the wound to the vampire spawn’s pride. “Off to drain some more rats, then?”

Astarion brushed past him on his way to the dark edge of the woods, where he always went on his evening prowls. “It’s a little pathetic, darling,” the pale elf whispered. “How you carry on with him. _Everyone_ thinks so.”

Langoth watched him slink away, angry enough to spit. And he did, spat after Astarion’s retreating back. He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“He’s only jealous,” Halsin said. “He wanted you for himself. You know that.”

Looking up into the druid’s eyes, Langoth felt his fury abate like a doused fire. 

“I do not belong to anyone, least of all him,” he said, trying to cling to the righteous anger he no longer felt. 

“And that is why I love you,” Halsin said. “Well, one of the many reasons.” The word _love_ struck Langoth like a bolt of lightning and he looked into the druid’s eyes for the trick, for the joke that must surely lie beneath his words. But there was none, only his usual warmth. “And so tomorrow you journey into the Underdark?”

Langoth nodded, still turning over the word _love_ in his mind. “We can delay no longer.”

Halsin leaned close and he could smell his scent, cedar and blackcurrants and smoke. He breathed it in as the druid whispered, “Then let us claim tonight as ours alone.” 

He sank into the druid’s kiss, the soft lips that tasted sweet and spicy like some rare liquor. And he did not protest when Halsin led him by the hand back to the secluded edge of the camp where they lay together, pretending as though they were the only two in the encampment, or in the world.

Rain began to patter on the leaves and streak their cheeks, lacing Halsin’s long hair with fine droplets. “We’re going to get soaked,” Langoth said. 

But Halsin just smiled. “I saw the storm on the horizon this afternoon. Don’t worry, I’ve prepared something.” 

And so he had: a makeshift tent of oiled canvas was suspended over four tall staves, beneath which the druid had spread soft furs and even a pillow. There was a brass bowl full of some unguent and beside it on a tray--a tray, where could have the druid procured it?--two silver cups and a bottle of wine or perhaps some spirit. A spray of wild roses lay upon the pillow and warm light glowed from a translucent bubble suspended in the air: a light cantrip.

“Such luxury,” Langoth said in wonder. It felt as though it had been an age since his head had rested upon a pillow, since he’d drunk from a goblet rather than his cupped hand. 

“I enjoy rough living, as you know,” Halsin said, a gleam of mischief in his eyes, “But I thought you deserved a bit of spoiling. Or if not spoiling, at least some comfort.”

Langoth kept staring at the pile of the lovely furs, the silk stitched pillow, the roses, and he knew he ought to say something but couldn’t trust himself with words. He was mindful of Halsin’s patient regard as he stood there, dumbly, in the rain looking at the tent and its furnishings. Finally, he said, “All this for me?”

“Yes, it is. Now, take off your clothes.”

Langoth raised an eyebrow. “Even for you, Halsin, that is rather abrupt.” 

The druid laughed. “I’m going to try to properly spoil you and give you a massage. Every time I touch your back it’s as knotted as a walnut tree.”

“I’ve had some cause to be tense, these past weeks,” Langoth noted drily. 

“Even more reason, then. Go on, strip.”

Langoth did as commanded but took his time, allowing Halsin to admire his form as he slowly unlaced his gauntlets, his jerkin, and finally his boots and breeches until he stood in his smallclothes, shivering slightly as the cool mist of rain struck his skin.

“Gods but you’re beautiful,” Halsin said, the words catching in his throat. When he said so, Langoth felt it. Somehow, reflected through the older elf’s eyes he saw himself as he never had before. As someone worthy of desire.

“Do you want me here?” he said, stepping into the tent and lying on the furs. They were well tanned and felt as soft as a whisper on his bare skin. He shivered with pleasure.

Halsin assented with a terse monosyllable and he glanced over his shoulder to see the druid focused on the bowl of oil. 

“I’m not really one for massages anyway--” Langoth began, then gasped as Halsin’s strong, warm hands, slick with oil, found his shoulders. “Oh, Corellon’s sweet sighs, that feels wonderful.” Distantly, he perceived Halsin’s chuckle as he melted beneath his skilled hands.

The druid ran his the edge of his palm up his spine in a long, fluid motion before both of his hands settled on Langoth’s shoulders and rested for a moment, long enough for him to appreciate their warm weight and to anticipate the next strokes, which delved deep into the knots around his shoulders. Another involuntary moan escaped his lips. There seemed to be some sort of healing magic in Halsin’s fingers, some energy that loosened his muscles and revivified even as it relaxed him.

The magic in the druid’s hands and the steady pelting of rain on the tent put him into a kind of daze and joyfully he surrendered to pure sensation, letting go of the foreboding that had taken hold after the elation of defeating the goblins had subsided. For the first time in weeks he didn’t think of brain-devouring tadpoles, hags, cambions, marauding goblins, fractious druids, or the horrors of the Underdark. He was simply clay beneath Halsin’s skilled fingers. They skimmed down his back in a scintillating tingle and he sighed, falling still deeper into the trance. The thin coating of oil on his skin held in the warmth of the druid’s touch, the heat of his own blood. It smelled of an almond grove in flower.

“I’ve never felt so relaxed,” he murmured, “Not in the presence of another.”

“Shh,” Halsin chided. He drew circles down to the waistband of Langoth’s smallclothes and said, “Surely we can dispense with these.” Langoth sighed in agreement, a shiver of pleasure accompanying the druid’s touch as he slid his drawers off his hips and his fingers dug into the base of his spine and then the large muscles of his gluteus. Halsin sighed faintly as he kneaded the muscles of his buttocks and a smile pricked the corner of Langoth’s lips; he could hear the desire pent back in that exhalation. For a tease, he wriggled slightly and raised his hips, which earned him a playful swat.

“Just relax,” Halsin said, mock exasperated. His breath quickened again as the druid’s hands found his inner thighs, moving over the muscle in one long sweep that reached right to his crotch. His arousal was immediate and spontaneous, as it always was with Halsin. Even as he moved down to the backs of Langoth’s legs, he felt heat building inside him. Halsin’s hair brushed the bare skin on his back and he gasped at the sensation.

“Did I hurt you?” the druid asked, pausing. Langoth shook his head. Even the note of concern in his voice, the particular pitch and timbre that was so _Halsin_ , was turning him on. He tried to focus again on the exquisite massage but his desire stubbornly refused to be ignored. 

“Now, on your back,” Halsin commanded. Langoth swallowed, knowing his arousal would be impossible to hide but did as he was bidden, keeping his eyes closed as he rolled onto his back. The briefest pause--he imagined the druid smiling at the effect he was having on him--and then he resumed stroking his legs, from Langoth’s knees to the tops of his thighs. Langoth sucked in his breath as Halsin’s hands moved up to his pelvis, pressing down on the muscles around his cock, sending ripples of pleasure through his body. 

He opened his eyes to see Halsin straddled above, his long hair falling to one side of his rugged face, a crooked smile playing on his lips and one eyebrow quirked in amusement--or was it a question?

Langoth began to prop himself on his elbows but Halsin pushed him back. 

It was an innocent gesture. His rational mind recognized that, later. But in the moment, the feeling of being pushed back, by arms stronger than his own, provoked a sense memory so powerful it overwhelmed him. 

His body reacted. He shoved back from the furs, away from Halsin as though burned. He would never forget the surprise and hurt in his lover’s eyes at that moment. His own shame and fear. 

But Halsin didn’t admonish him, or pull away. He didn’t accuse. Instead the druid waited, still and calm.

“I’m sorry,” Langoth said, feeling the word in every part of his body. 

“It’s alright. You know you’re safe, with me.” He searched Halsin’s eyes and found only his customary gentleness, tinged with some concern.

That word, _safe_. As big as the other one Halsin had used early, _love_. As impossible.

“I know,” he said. He wanted to add a thousand other things. To tell him what a waste of time he was, that he wasn’t worth it, that they should give up this impossible thing, to recognize it was just a dalliance born of dire circumstance. But looking into the druid’s implacable gaze, he knew that he wouldn’t hear any of that. Absurdly, he cared for Langoth. _Loved_ , he reminded himself. He couldn’t trust himself to say it back.

Hesitantly at first, he leaned forward, onto his knees, to kiss the druid. He could say it this way. Their lips brushed and alchemist’s fire roiled within him, burning through his veins. Halsin pulled away to murmur his name into his ear, and as his tongue struck his teeth for the terminal syllable he countered with another kiss, deep and hungry, forcing the druid’s lips to his, parting them with his tongue even as he raised his hips to press firmly against him. To feel the strong length of his body, thick and solid as an oak trunk.

They both gasped for air when finally their lips parted. He frantically pulled aside Halsin’s tunic to reveal the scarred chest beneath. How proudly his lover wore his wounds, a map of his past laid bare for any to see. Langoth embraced him, relishing the warm solidity of his big, deep torso. Then the electric current as he felt the druid’s arousal press against his hip. He began to unlace Halsin’s breeches, swearing at his ineptitude as he managed to only tighten the knot. 

“Are you certain?” Halsin said. 

In reply, Langoth pulled the breeches down over the druid’s hips and took him fully into his mouth. Halsin groaned as his mouth closed around the druid’s cock, tongue tracing its underside as he slowly began to move up and down its length. He was enormous and it was impossible to take all of him at once, so Langoth used his hands on the base of his shaft. He savored his flavor, the way the druid’s hands clenched and unclenched his hair as he thrust. He moaned against his cock, provoking a gasp from the druid. The thrusts became more insistent, deeper. 

And then Halsin withdrew, panting. “I want all of you,” he said. Langoth leaned back into the furs and Halsin braced himself over him so they were face to face. 

Langoth was nearly shaking with his need. “Please,” he whispered, pressing close enough to the druid to feel his breath on his neck.

Slowly, painfully slowly, Halsin spread some of the almond oil onto his cock, all the while pinning him with his bright hazel eyes. Probing him, questioning. Langoth spread his knees, lifted his hips from the furs. And groaned as Halsin pressed into him with slow, gentle thrusts. 

Halsin filled him more completely with every stroke but not nearly fast enough for Langoth. He panted with his need, pulling the druid closer, deeper. He had to have him completely, to abandon himself to the druid. To regain the sense of wholeness he could only feel when in his possession. 

“Slowly,” Halsin whispered, running a hand through Langoth’s hair. But he could offer only a strangled cry in response, raising his hips insistently to take him deeper. The druid sighed in pleasure, spurring him on only more. He rocked his hips to meet Halsin’s thrusts, gritting his teeth against the exquisite pain that met every push deeper. He was a cup that yearned both to be filled and to be broken, and in the opposition of those two desires lay his passion, his great need. 

Halsin moaned his name as he took him fully, up to the hilt. Cried it again as his thrusts grew harsher. Hearing his own name on the druid’s lips brought him to his precipice. Both cried out as one when they finished together, Halsin gasping above Langoth, sweat pasting his hair to his cheek, twining over the ivy tattoo.

It took him longer than usual to recover, for as deep as they had gone together before, in the High Forest and in the forgotten shrine, tonight Langoth felt they’d gone further, much further. All the way to the black fountain welling at his center. 

Even as Halsin held him in his arms, he covered his face with one hand, brushing away tears as they came. Halsin only kissed his head and went on holding him as the rain drummed away on the makeshift roof of this refuge in the darkness.

*

Langoth, like others of his kind, didn’t dream except when he wished, of such things he wished. The peculiar tadpole dream had been one exception. And his nightmares, terrifying as they were infrequent, were another.

It wasn’t uncommon, his brother had told him, of elves who had experienced some horror. Those whose souls had briefly been parted from their bodies. Those who had been tortured. Those who had been raped. Except he hadn’t used that word, Langoth remembered--he had said _misused_. But both brothers had known what he meant. Such allusions were understood.

A nightmare hadn’t overwhelmed him since before he left Baldur’s Gate and he’d hoped they were behind him, now. 

So when he found himself, that night, back in the shadowed wood of his darkest memory, he faced it with a familiar dread. He knew he was dreaming but he also knew there was no escape. He would have to live this moment again, once more. At least once more.

They approached from the south, as always. He turned away from the sound of their baying. 

He climbed a tree. Other times, he had tried to double back. To outrun them. To hide in a ditch.

They always discovered him in the end.

He wasn’t yet fully grown in the dream and didn’t have the strength to throw them off when they got hold of his arms and legs. There were so many of them and only one of him. They had painted their faces with mud, like goblins. 

What came after was horrific but in many ways, the worst part was when he appealed to his eldest cousin, Derenth. 

Why had he done so? Derenth had ever been the chieftain of this miserable tribe of tormentors. His nemesis at home. The first and loudest to glory in Langoth’s misfortunes and petty misdeeds. It was the spark of his hatred for Langoth that had lit the bonfire that they all warmed themselves around, for their amusement. And yet he was powerless not to beg him again now. 

“Please, don’t let them hurt me, cousin.”

For a moment, his cousin seemed sympathetic--even remorseful. Conciliatory. Then the mask dropped. The twisted look on his cousin’s face as he shoved Langoth onto his back, into the black mud of a boar’s wallow. The screams of laughter from the other elves, their rapture as the biggest and boldest youth, Derenth’s best mate, jumped onto his chest, flipping him onto his belly to press his face into the mud. And the answering lurch of his fear that today they would go too far, today they would kill him. 

The youth sitting on his back now had his cousin’s knife against his throat and commanded him to eat the mud, forcing his face into the puddle before he could comply. He tasted the rancid grit of it again, for perhaps the hundredth time. The sickening press of the elf’s erection against his back. He vomited into the filth and the gang jeered and shouted. He felt the sizzling pain as the youth cut away his shirt, also opening the skin beneath. As he made a halting attempt at carving his initials into Langoth’s back, at Derenth’s suggestion. The gaiety in his cousin Garlan’s handsome face when he looked up from the mud. And the terror as the din quieted and he heard Derenth suggest, in perfect clarity, that they strip him naked.

The rape that followed was inexpert and halting, excruciating. For much of it, Langoth’s face was submerged partly or fully in the muck and he was certain that he would die drowning in the mud, his cousin’s knife to his throat. That they would bury him in this wood, and the last thing he would hear would be his cousin’s mate whispering, “bastard,” again and again under his breath as he penetrated him. 

But he didn’t die, then or now. 

There was the briefest window of opportunity and he took it. A sharp twist of his torso, an upthrust elbow in his rapist’s eye as he slipped in the mud. He didn’t look back as he staggered out of the mire, blood trickling from the wounds on his back and his neck. A quarter of an inch higher and his artery would have been nicked. But it wasn’t, and he ran hard. This time, they didn’t chase him.

*

He awoke gasping, as he always did from the nightmares. Like he’d been running for his life. Or drowning.

But this time, Halsin was with him. He was by his side in an instant and in another, his powerful arms were around him. 

“Easy, love,” the druid said. Langoth, his face pressed against Halsin’s heart, heard his voice as a deep rumble, like distant thunder. “Was it the tadpole?”

He exhaled jaggedly before he spoke. “Not this time.”

“Tell me,” Halsin said. His voice was gentle, eyes searching. 

Langoth’s throat closed until he forced himself to breathe. He took in the soft light of the floating bulbs, the feel of the furs beneath him, the strength of his lover’s arms. He was safe, he reminded himself. 

He began his story.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Langoth tells Halsin the story of his escape from Cloakwood and the discovery of his lost kin in Baldur's Gate. Before sunrise and the descent to the Underdark, Halsin and Langoth take comfort in one another's arms one last time.

How to tell you the story I’ve told myself a thousand times, and in as many different ways? Perhaps I should present it as a cautionary fable, like Wyll’s book of fairy tales. Or one of the dark confessional tomes that Astarion reads when he thinks no one is watching.

I had to piece together what little I knew of my parents; no one told me. When I asked my aunt questions about my mother and father, I was apt to get a swat across the cheek and so I learned not to ask questions. There were hints, insinuations, even jokes. Adults talked and their eyes slid over to me, the living, breathing punchline. And there was the word, of course, _bastard_. For some time, my cousin Derenth had me convinced that was my name.

By my thirtieth year, I understood, osmotically, that my mother had been forced by some noble eladrin visiting Cloakwood and that I was the result of that unhappy union. My mother had died birthing me, or perhaps had killed herself from shame--it wasn’t clear which but it was certain that I was to blame. And that was why my aunt allowed her children to heap misery upon me without admonishment, why she couldn’t find it in her to share any of the warmth or affection she showed my cousins or even their friends. 

All of that to say, I was a lonely boy. I spent most of my time in the wood. The beasts and fey folk there were safer and altogether more interesting than any of the people I knew. I was ignorant and didn’t know the name of a single tree but I knew all of their faces and loved them. I dreamed that a kind old wizard would come and sweep me away into a life of magic, like in a story. Or that I was an impervious paladin, pure and powerful. Or that my mother was still alive and waiting for me to rescue her from an enchanted sleep.

As we grew older, Derenth’s teasing developed into something altogether darker. He had a gang of other boys that worshipped him. I think for his cruelty as much as his charisma. Their favorite game was hunting me. _Bastard baiting_ , Derenth called it. The wood was no longer my refuge but an arena. They rarely caught me but when they did their tortures were humiliating, inventive as only the minds of children can devise.

My aunt knew nothing about it but I don’t think she would have done anything if she had. As I grew older, she had less patience for me. Her strikes became more frequent and less restrained. And she complained often of the expense of keeping me, of how she anticipated the blessed day when I would finally leave them and she’d be free of her obligation.

The day came sooner than she could have hoped. My cousins’ game went too far. They--they nearly killed me. They took my innocence and my honor. And most of all, they burned away my illusions. If I had stayed, it would only have been a matter of time before they were successful. I escaped, I ran, and I did not stop running.

I ended up in Baldur’s Gate, where all manner of flotsam and sea-drift seem to wash up. As I said, I was an ignorant boy. But I appeared, to human eyes, to be a full grown elf, or near enough one to work. 

Ah, Halsin--those were happy days, my joy all the brighter for being unexpected. I worked at the docks, lading cargo from the boats on the river, my shoulders sizzling in the sun, muscles aching after a day of honest work. And by evenings, I walked the streets of Baldur’s Gate just to relish my freedom and the scent of sweet frying dough in the evening air, the laughter of glamorous girls going to their parties. If I was flush, I stopped in a pub and watched the people go about the business of living as though watching a play. It was free, at least, and to my mind far more entertaining. I might be there still if my brother had not found me.

He is tall for one of our kind--though not as tall at you--and slender as a willow. You need only to look at him to see that he’s of noble birth. What did you call it? Noble bearing. I’m not certain I will ever truly possess it, but I think that Cadamir was born with it. The confidence, the attitude--some would say, the arrogance. But he simply knew his place in the order and that was quite near the top. He is a prince, albeit without a kingdom.

I felt a shock of recognition and he didn’t need to speak for me to know that we were related. He looked so like me... if I were dressed in a rich velvet doublet of midnight blue. His hair was darker, his face perhaps a little thinner. But otherwise, it was like one of the magical reflections Gale toys with some evenings.

He was equally taken aback and we must have made an amusing sight that night at the Candlekeep, the dock boy and the lordling elf with the same face and matching shocked expressions.

But Cadamir was only surprised at our resemblance: for you see, he had sought me out in Baldur’s Gate. He knew my name and claimed to be my half brother.

I was wary at first. Absurdly, my first thought was that it was another elaborate trick of Derenth’s, that he had somehow found me here and was intent on ruining the humble life I’d carved out for myself.

Then Cadamir spoke of my mother. Her name was Aerlaine. He had known her. A beautiful lady with an unfettered spirit, he said, free with her laughter. He was sorry she was gone.

The unadorned kindness of those words--little more than courtesy, truly--unleashed something within me and I could not hold back my tears, much though I tried. 

Cadamir took me in and was more like a father than an elder brother. Our father had died some years before, killed in a terrible battle back in their lands in the High Forest. The old kingdom was lost and the survivors scattered across Faerun, so he was lord of naught. 

He told me the truth of my parents, as well: they were in love but my mother had a wild heart and did not wish to be bound to a husband, especially not a nobleman of the High Forest. Cadamir did not know how she died but was certain it was not of shame. When our father had come to find us we were gone, as were all of our kin. Cloakwood is a dangerous place and they believed the worst had come to pass. Cadamir only discovered the truth when in that wood again decades later and recognized my aunt from before. They told him I’d gone and Baldur’s Gate was his first thought. As I said, it’s where such cast-offs usually end up, in this part of the world.

It was strange to go from a shared room in a decrepit inn to Cadamir’s mansion, to trade my salt-stained shirt for a slashed velvet doublet. He was horrified to learn that my education consisted almost entirely of what one can learn from pixies and satyrs, which is to say very little in the way of reading or writing and perhaps more than needful about pranks and the distillation of alcohol. So he was my tutor in all things, as well. 

Truly, it was an education. Cadamir moved in sophisticated circles, people who lived by different rules than the simple folk at the docks and in the taverns. He turned me into a gentleman... of a sort. I’ve never quite lost the pine pitch between my fingers. Nor can I move with Cadamir’s effortless grace through a party--you’d be more likely to find me skulking around the edges. It’s funny to imagine meeting you there, in another life. 

Most of all, Cadamir taught me that I must rely only on myself, look to myself first. That I have nothing to prove to anyone. To see myself as someone worth... someone worth…

*

“Someone worth fighting for?” Halsin suggested. He sipped his wine and Langoth’s thoughts irretrievably muddled. 

“Yes,” he said. “Or no--well, any road, he taught me to look after myself first.”

“Ah,” Halsin said. “I think I understand.” His eyes gleamed in the mellow light of the orbs. The sky was at its darkest but soon would tinge with the purple of the coming dawn. They reclined side by side, Halsin idly stroking his arm in a way that was at once immensely relaxing and distractingly arousing.

Langoth took the cup of wine from the druid’s hand and drank. It was a full-bodied red, punishingly tannic, tasting of strawberries and ripe red fruit. 

“Arron’s best,” Halsin said with a half-smile and shrug of apology.

“It’s delicious--from Amn?” He took another swallow before handing the goblet back. Their fingers brushed and electricity ran up Langoth’s arm, filling him with a heat that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

Halsin laughed. “From Githmir, for all I know.” He held Langoth’s gaze for a long moment and once again he felt as though he was losing himself in the druid’s eyes. “You were very brave. You have survived much that others would not.”

Langoth dropped his eyes. “Thank you,” he finally said, when he was certain his voice was steady enough.

“And I would like to meet this brother of yours,” Halsin said. “Cadamir. If our travels take us to Baldur’s Gate.”

He tried to imagine what his brother would make of the druid. What they would possibly talk about. “Perhaps they will. I hope so.” 

“Do you know, I would do anything for you?” Halsin said. His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Even go to one of those fancy parties, if you’d have me.”

“Nothing could give me greater pleasure,” he said, overcome by laughter at the thought of Halsin standing above the crowd of well-fed patricians like a statue of some wild and ancient god. Of him being offered a dainty petit four on a silver platter. “They wouldn’t be able to get enough of you.”

“A common enough sentiment,” Halsin said, stretching his great arms over his head to show his muscles to their best advantage. His hair fell just over one eye and desire overtook Langoth as swiftly as his laughter had. 

“Ah, and so humble.” He dipped over the reclining druid to kiss his face, as gentle as the rain still pattering outside. Halsin sighed and pulled him close for a deeper kiss, full on the mouth; he tasted of sun-ripened strawberries. 

“It will be dawn soon,” Langoth breathed. “The others--”

“They’ve already heard it all. Gods, but I want you again.” The druid’s words brought forth an answering shiver from his flesh, a tightening in the crotch of his breeches.

“Quickly then,” he said. “Before sunrise.” He was never able to resist Halsin but then, he never really wanted to resist him, either.

The inky sky was already fading to blue at the horizon. Halsin took him at his word and reached for the hardness at the front of Langoth’s breeches, making him gasp with the strength of his grip. He swore an oath as the druid pawed him through the leather, the roughness of his touch edging his pleasure with pain. Involuntarily, his hips rose to meet Halsin’s hand. 

Then the druid reached inside his pants, sliding up and down his cock in swift strokes. Certain that at least someone in their camp was already up and about, he bit Halsin’s shoulder to keep from crying out. The druid hissed in pain but his hand didn’t pause. Langoth leaned against his scarred chest and gasped as his body shuddered. He wouldn’t last another minute if the older elf kept going. But before the critical moment, Halsin lowered his head to take him into his mouth. 

He was skilled with his mouth and relentless, ravenous. He took all of Langoth, up to his throat, flicking his tongue down his length and then ferociously taking him in again. And again. The sensation was unbearably, exquisitely good. “Gods, Halsin. Please.” He looked down to see the druid’s hazel eyes watching him lose control.

His climax shuddered through his hips and dazedly he looked down to see his lover wiping the side of his mouth. Langoth panted, his entire body aflame with residual lust.

Halsin smirked. “You said _quickly_ , did you not?”

Langoth threw himself back onto the furs, drained. All he could do was groan.

Now the dawn was painting the sky in hectic shades of pink and orange; their time was almost gone.

Halsin rose to his knees, stretching his magnificent torso. “Let’s regain some goodwill and bring fish to the camp for breakfast,” he suggested. But Langoth sat up and pushed Halsin firmly onto his ass, straddling him.

“I think not,” he said, running a hand through the druid’s sweat-tangled hair and softly biting the tattoo on his jaw. He relished the swift intake of Halsin’s breath.

“Someone really will hear us now,” the older elf warned. “Are you certain--”

Langoth hushed him with a kiss, then broke away to say, “If you’re worried about making noise, you can bite my arm, this time.” 

Halsin’s chuckle turned to a gasp as Langoth’s hand found his balls, cupping them even as his other hand stroked his bare chest with his short nails. Langoth found the bowl of oil and slowly began to spread it onto the druid’s cock, giving himself ample opportunity to admire it once more. In the daylight, he was always shocked anew at its size. Senseless under his oiled hands, Halsin arched his back, his breath ragged.

The sun broke the line of the horizon, bathing them both in a red glow. The light seemed to awaken an urgency in Halsin and he pushed Langoth onto his hands and knees, positioning him, sending another welcome shiver through Langoth’s body as his member brushed against his ass. Then their bodies joined to one and again Langoth felt full, whole, and pure. 

The druid’s thrusts did not speed or slow but held the same steady rhythm, like a heartbeat, bearing them inexorably toward climax. Halsin’s breath was hot on Langoth’s neck and his moans resonant in his ear as he plunged into him, growing more desperate with every thrust. And then the druid wrapped one strong arm around his chest, bracing against him to go even deeper and Langoth felt ecstasy overcome him a second time, crying out and breaking the sacred silence of the dawn.

It was enough to finish Halsin; his hips bucked as he came inside Langoth in a gout of liquid pearl, the force of which Langoth felt from inside. They collapsed together onto the ground, Halsin still holding Langoth in one arm.

“I think we’ll need to catch a lot of fish to make up for that reveille,” Langoth said, still catching his breath. The aftermath of his bliss rippled through his body.

“And a honeycomb,” Halsin said. “Perhaps some blackberries.”

Langoth nestled his face against Halsin’s shoulder and whispered, “It was worth it.”

“So it was,” the druid agreed, sitting up and kissing Langoth’s head. He looked to the horizon. The clouds of last night’s storm had moved south and the sun had ascended.

“Take me with you tomorrow, to the Underdark,” Halsin said. “I have no doubt you could face it alone. But you don’t have to.”

In his bones, he knew he wanted the druid by his side in the darkness, as much as he had ever wanted anything. “It would be a great comfort,” he said. “Alright, then. Into the darkness, together.” 

And once he spoke the words, both his heart and the glorious dawn were brighter.


End file.
